


good morning.

by caticoo



Category: Dangan Ronpa - All Media Types
Genre: :'/, Abuse, Angst, M/M, One-Sided Relationship, POV Second Person, Self-Harm, Suicide, Unhappy Ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-14
Updated: 2017-11-14
Packaged: 2019-02-02 06:12:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,785
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12721137
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/caticoo/pseuds/caticoo
Summary: everything may as well be empty.





	good morning.

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Kirumi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kirumi/gifts).



> fuc. Fuck. FuCK!!!!!1 HEY!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!11 HEY!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! WHAT THE FUCK DID YOU DO CIEL!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! WHAT THE FUCK!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
> 
> in response to this: http://archiveofourown.org/works/12717909

There’s a boy that is in your class.

No… there  _ was  _ a boy that  _ was  _ in your class. His name was Yuhiro Kobayashi.

You wish that you could have said that name more. You wish you could have screamed it, yelled it, said it louder for the people in the back --  _ Kobayashi-san _ . You wish you could have been braver, like a man cocking a gun at a mad dog, or even a broader form of courage, like getting over a nicotine addiction. You wish that you could have done something to save a life. You wish you could have done  _ something  _ to save his life, before he ended it, purposefully,  _ himself _ . That wish you had to be held again in his arms, gone. That wish you had to smile, worriless, free of any sin, gone. That wish you had to stay beside his side, perhaps, if he was even your friend at all, gone to the man known as death himself. It was gone. He was gone. It was all,  _ hopelessly  _ gone.

You understand that this isn’t your fault. It may just connect to the girl that was his girlfriend, who he dated in your first year -- they broke up, or so word said online, on campus, during her graduation. She would be heading to the military, and he would have to stay behind to attend his studies. A breakup between the two was only logical, to your mind. There was no possible way that a young man in high school would be able to maintain a stable relationship with a woman that would be off on the battlefield. So when this happened, and all those patted him on the back for comfort or seemingly mourning alongside this, you were happy. You were happy, because you were selfish. You were happy, because there was nobody that was in your way -- you could have been with him. You could have tried.

But you did not. You did nothing but watch, like an obedient puppy to your beliefs. You continued to gaze at him intently whenever he went up to the front of the class, but that was all. You never bothered to say hi (you were too busy biting your tongue, making it bleed), you never got up to wish him a good morning. You never asked for his help at a problem you held little understanding to, and you never asked him to sit with you during lunch time (because you didn’t eat. Fuck you. You anorexic shithead.) It was your own fault that you didn’t bother to be more interesting, your own fault that you couldn’t shine or show off like you did as a kid -- it was no wonder he never seemed close. It was no wonder he didn’t want to figure you out. The romanticized scene of him carrying you out of the tree was just a dream to you now, because soon enough, he stopped showing up to class.

You wanted to confront him, and ask him what was wrong. You assumed the likely chance was due to his breakup, but that would have been a month ago -- perhaps he was not the type of man that sprung back very easy. Still, you noticed he looked tired most of the while (not enough to compete with your dark circles and vitamin-less skin,) and his voice lost the sweetness it used against you, when he called you while you slept soundly in that tree. You tried again, one time -- you hoped he would pass by that second time, and you would be able to relive such a moment. But he did not come. You ended up falling asleep until it was pronounced bedtime -- since you want to avoid attention so much, you kept in the tree, and went to class the next day. Nobody noticed.

You did not cry when they announced that a student had committed suicide one morning in the winter of your second year. Once again, the tall boy hadn’t shown up to class (it was frequent, you were not worried -- he was fine. He was fine. Those rumors of him walking out at night and smoking were simply rumors -- through the words of the snide girl she confirmed it true, but you didn’t assume anything more). You missed his hellos. You missed his good mornings. But these were buried deeply under your fears and anxieties and beliefs of not being good enough. The school held a ceremony in the gym, chairs stuffed with students of all different grades, many different talents. Everyone looked so unique in comparison to your boring self.

You did not cry when people murmured. You did not cry when the principal approached the pedestal. You kept to yourself, and stared down at the sleeves that covered your note-ridden hands and arms (they were all descriptions of him, all you could gather from quick glances upwards. You had several drawings of him already, but none perfected to your taste.) You did not cry then. You would not cry now. You would not cry for a student who had chosen to end their life, because you very well wanted to do the same. 

But you cried when they said the name Yuhiro Kobayashi.

The people in your class looked shocked, knowing that that was the tall, kind young man that sat in the very back row. His ex looked mortified at the sudden news, and she looked, alarmed, at the tan-skinned man whose face grew paler as the news. Everything else beyond that is a blur to you. The words said by the faculty, the speech that the counselor delivered about suicide, the worried murmurs and even the stinging noises of people falling asleep. How could they not care for a boy that had killed himself? How could they do that? How heartless could they be? But you knew all they were were heartless. They had names. They had identities. They had people that loved them and hated them. You are nothing like these people, for better or for worse.

You found it difficult to look at those sketches of him directly after the ceremony. You found it difficult to look at those sketches anytime after. You couldn’t find it in your heart to finish them -- he hadn’t finished with his life, properly, and he ended it prematurely. You know it is not your fault. You know that it was his choice, through and through, for reasons that were a mystery to most (he left no notes, no reasons -- only an enigma and a crying boy with bagged eyes and blue hair). You damn the thing that they call “love.” Life seems to easily take away, and life seems to hate you. You hate it right back. You hate for what it’s done to you, but in the end, you also know that the way you live your live is entirely your choice. It was your choice to destroy that girl’s reputation. It was your choice to repent. It was your choice that you’re skin and bones, and have no friends.

You read online that there are many ways to get over a broken-heart, a suicide. But none of this helps. They require you talking to a professional, who you know will also examine your boney body and send you to medical help. You know that trying a new activity will only lead you to become more depressed, as seeing others in blissful happiness only reminds you that you cannot do the same. Kobayashi could not do the same. You cry when you remember the way he held you. You cry when you remember a thing that was now impossible to receive again. You cry when you remember that the only thing that had made you feel forgiven was now lost, and you are now, once again, cursed to Hell.

You know that word will go around school if you do not attend class. Attention is something you didn’t need, but needed the most -- you chose the former, so you kept attending as usual. Even though you hated it, the smiles on your classmates faces the next day after -- the stupid, stupid student who wore a box over their head and tried to “lift the mood” by making some tasteless remarks. You hated it when they started appearing more and more, until not a single frown was found in the entire class -- even your teachers were glad once again. Life moved on. You did not. It was a repeat of your childhood. People moved forward, and you did not. You chose not to.

Curiously, a girl confesses to you. To you now she is nameless and faceless (she was just as boring as you, and even though this may have been your connection point, it was useless if there were two boring people together -- it was more useless when you were only used as eye candy). She is a girl that was a class under you -- in her letter, she explained that she found you “charming” and “mysterious.” You found that such a large load of a bullshit, and wanted to tell that to her face -- but a voice inside of you, tiny, gave you hope. That, perhaps, you would be able to move on from the man known as Yuhiro Kobayashi. So you said yes to her plea, to her request to be your girlfriend. It was one of the worst decisions of your life.

She used you. She abused you in ways that you were not even sure she knew of. Texts from her were rare, conversations even rarer -- you checked her social media, looked through old stories and found connections to abandoned accounts. She was in the reserve course, and her parents were far, far too concerned with money and the wellbeing of their daughter -- she had no talent, and it shone through the way she acted just like a romanticized American high school girl. She spray-tanned her body, bleached her hair, acted as if she was an Ultimate, even though she was anything but. She took you to parties that you did not want to go to, threatening to leak the way you lived (she found out about how lanky your body was, when she asked you to take off your shirt, once). You were forced to drink. You were forced to dance. You were forced to grind against her in front of expecting guests, and you found yourself waking up in the street a few blocks down from the house of the party.

You found out she only used you through her friends’ accounts. She only used your position as a boyfriend to claim that she was in a relationship -- you knew well she cheated on you with multiple men (the pictures were everywhere but her accounts). But you cared little, for you cared little for her -- the two of you were still “together,” but everyone knew your relationship was as good as dead. _ Just like Kobayashi _ , you think, one rainy summer night. It’s the summer holiday, and you have nothing better to do. Your girlfriend is off having sex with some upperclassman you don’t know the identity of. It’s not like you care anyways. You stopped caring long ago, when you pulled out those dollar-store razors you had oh-so-casually bought (the lady looked at you a bit oddly, with some concern in her face, because she noticed that your face was clean and fresh. You pretended not to notice when she glanced down and had a look of realization on her face) and pushed them down against your fragile skin. You bled far, far too easily. But it was relieving.

You marked yourself up pretty well whenever you did that. The scars never usually lifted, for your skin was far too dead for that. You had to find new places to cut, until all the parts of your body that you covered by cloth were sprinkled with small cuts that had bled and only barely left scars. It hurted to brush against things. It hurted to walk. It hurted to only bump into someone, because the scars on your chest would have hurt. You hated stubbing your toe, because you made one mark at each end. The pain hurt, but it was nothing compared to the pain you felt when you purchased flowers, and the florist looked at you somberly when you purchased white chrysanthemums (you read online that these were appropriate). It was nothing compared to the pain you felt when you carried the umbrella in your hands, pulled open, the pattering of rain against the waterproof material. The sound of the poison you stole from the science lab (or, what you believed to be -- it was something you were told was dangerous to drink,) swashing in your pocket.

You arrived at his gravestone. The picture that they placed above it the first week he was buried was no longer there, so you decide to take the one from the bag you brought out -- it’s a sketch of him. You never got to complete it, but at least you’d be unfinished, too. You want to look at his face, envision him there, standing in front of you, beside you, behind you -- just there. To watch you. To listen to you.

“Hello, Kobayashi-san,” You breath, you set the flowers down, and you keep watching. No response, as usual, but you can hear him say to you by the memories you held dear in your head (and heart) ever since the first moment he told you them --  _ hello, Kagehisa-kun! _ You fantasize having a normal conversation with him, a normal discussion between two people. You can imagine him, with clips of his voice that you’ve heard and recorded in your mind and replayed in your mind while you sketched him, asking you if your day was well. You imagine yourself telling him it was good, and you imagine asking him the same question. You imagine his smile. You imagine it, and your tears start again. “...May… May I tell you something?”

You don’t get a response, again, but it’s not like you expect any. You crouch down, to the low earth, where his skeleton is, likely -- you place your hand on where his heart would be, several feet down. You want to feel it again, but all you are met with is the wet, soggy grass -- still, your hands sink down, as if that is his shirt, and the mud you find is his skin. You imagine his pulse, thumping quietly -- you remember hearing it, you remember how it sounded. You remember his embrace. You remember feeling like you had done something correct in the last seven, eight, nine, god knows how many years. You imagine him being there, watching you, with your hand on his heart. You imagine his gentle expression, letting you be so close like that. You whisper, barely, so quietly, that you’re sure he can hear, “...You… never knew this, until now. But… I love you, Yuhiro.”

You shimmy the bottle of liquid out of your pocket, and you gaze intently at it. It’s what will kill you, if you chose to drink it. It’s what will end your life, and take you away from the graying town around you, doused in water. But what makes you uncap the bottle and drink it all, everything, every last drop, is the reassurance that you will be seeing Yuhiro Kobayashi again. The umbrella drops from your grasp, and you find yourself tumbling quietly next to his grave. You can imagine laying in a warm bed, curling up next to him for a tired evening together. You can imagine singing him lullabies, even though you hated singing ever since you decided to repent, if he was the type to get insomnia. You can imagine the comfort of his tender warmth, and the reassurance that there was love.

You pull a sleeve off of one of your arms. Written in squabbly, permanent marker was the sentence, “Please bury me next to Yuhiro Kobayashi.” You decided many days ago that this would be the only thing left of your existence. You wanted people to know you loved him. You wanted people to know you as the boy who loved Yuhiro Kobayashi, and the last person to ever gaze at him affectionately when he wasn’t looking.

You feel defeated, as the poison starts to break your insides, but you don’t mind. For the first time, it’s a breaking you enjoy. For the first time, you feel it is completely, unhesitatingly, important. You’re ready to become one with the next life.

And you will finally, finally, be the one to bid him a good morning.


End file.
